The Goose Girl | Page 8

and exhibit him as an intimate friend of the grand duke of Ehrenstein."
But Gretchen did not laugh. It was a serious thing to talk lightly of so grand a person as the duke. Still, the magic word America, where the gold came from, flamed her curiosity.
"You are from America?"
"Yes."
"Are you rich?"
"In fancy, in dreams"--humorously.
"Oh! I thought they were all rich."
"Only one or two of us."
"Is it very large, this America?"
"France, Spain, Prussia would be lonesome if set down in America. Only Russia has anything to boast of."
"Did you fight in the war?"
"Yes. Do you like music?"
"Were you ever wounded?"
"A scratch or two, nothing to speak of. But do you like music?"
"Very, very much. When they play Beethoven, Bach, or Meyerbeer, ach, I seem to live in another country. I hear music in everything, in the leaves, the rain, the wind, the stream."
It seemed strange to him that he had not noticed it at first, the almost Hanoverian purity of her speech and the freedom with which she spoke. The average peasant is diffident, with a vocabulary of few words, ignorant of art or music or where the world lay.
"What is your name?"
"Gretchen."
"It is a good name; it is famous, too."
"Goethe used it."
"So he did." Carmichael ably concealed his surprise: "You have some one who reads to you?"
"No, Herr. I can read and write and do sums in addition."
He was willing to swear that she was making fun of him. Was she a simple goose-girl? Was she not something more, something deeper? War-clouds were forming in the skies; they might gather and strike at any time. And who but the French could produce such a woman spy? Ehrenstein was not Prussia, it was true; but the duchy with its twenty thousand troops was one of the many pulses that beat in unison with this man Bismarck's plans. Carmichael addressed her quickly in French, aiming to catch her off her guard.
"I do not speak French, Herr,"--honestly.
He was certainly puzzled, but a glance at her hands dissolved his doubts. These hands were used to toil, they were in no way disguised. No Frenchwoman would sacrifice her hands for her country; at least, not to this extent. Yet the two things in his mind would not readily cohese: a goose-girl who was familiar with the poets and composers.
"You have been to school?"
"After a manner. My teacher was a kind priest. But he never knew that, with knowledge, he was to open the gates of discontent."
"Then you are not happy with your lot?"
"Is any one, Herr?"--quietly. "And who might you be, and what might you be doing here in Dreiberg, riding with the grand duke?"
"I am the American consul."
Gretchen took a step back.
"Oh, it is nothing that will bite you," he added.
"But perhaps I have been disrespectful!"
"Pray, how?"
Gretchen found that she had no definite explanation to offer.
"What did Colonel Wallenstein say to you?"
"Nothing of importance. I am used to it. I am perfectly able to take care of myself," she answered.
"But he annoyed you."
"That is true," she admitted.
"What did the policeman say?"
"What would he say to a goose-girl?"
"Shall I speak to him?"
"Would it really do any good?"--skeptically.
"It might. The duke is friendly toward me, and I am certain he would not tolerate such conduct in his police."
"You would only make enemies for me; insolence would become persecution. I know. Yet, I thank you, Herr--"
"Carmichael. Now, listen, Gretchen; if at any time you are in trouble, you will find me at the Grand Hotel or at the consulate next door to the Black Eagle."
"I shall remember. Sometimes I work in the Black Eagle." And recollection rose in her mind of the old man who had given her the gold piece.
"Good night," he said.
"Thank you, Herr."
Gretchen extended her hand and Carmichael took it in his own, inspecting it.
"Why do you do that?"
"It is a good hand; it is strong, too."
"It has to be strong, Herr. Good night."
Carmichael raised his hat again, and Gretchen breathed contentedly as she saw him disappear in the crowd. That little act of courtesy made everything brighter. There was only one other who ever touched his hat to her respectfully. And as she stood there, dreaming over the unusual happenings of the day, she felt an arm slip through hers, gently but firmly, even with authority. Her head went round.
"Leo?" she whispered.
The young vintner whom Carmichael had pushed against the wall that day smiled from under the deep shade of his hat, drawn down well over his face.
"Gretchen, who was that speaking to you?"
"Herr Carmichael, the American consul."
"Carmichael!" The arm in Gretchen's stiffened.
"What is it, Leo?"
"Nothing. Only, I grow mad with rage when any of these gentlemen speak to you. Gentlemen! I know them all too well."
"This one means no harm."
"I would I were certain. Ah, how I love you!" he whispered.
Gretchen thrilled